


Medea

by Apollo_Xandos



Category: Alexander (2004), Alexander Trilogy - Mary Renault, Alexander the Great historical, Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 21:13:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17794856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apollo_Xandos/pseuds/Apollo_Xandos
Summary: When Alexander broke up a brawl between Hephaistion and Krateros, he called out Hephaistion in public, but scolded Krateros in private. If Hephaistion knows himself in the wrong to have begun the fight, his public standing is now in tatters. To reclaim it, he has to kill the king. Hephaistion’s POV. (Not alternate history, no.)





	1. The Break

**Author's Note:**

> This is partly the result of a conversation with delos13. Other notes/acknowledgements at the end. As for the rollercoaster, all I can say is…stay with me. I’m trying to place what happened in a larger cultural context. The reference to Hephaistion as his _Hypaspistes Oktopos_ recalls the "Phoenician Trilogy," a separate set of stories.

He was going to have to kill him.

The laws of _tim_ _ē_ , public honor, demanded it.

It wasn’t just that Alexander had embarrassed him in public. In one sentence, Alexander had stripped him of all standing he’d struggled to attain since they’d crossed into Asia. He’d never been as ambitious as some of his fellow officers, but his good name did mean something to him.

Now, he was nothing.  Not just nothing without Alexander, he was nothing at all. Alexander had cut him off at the knees. Or maybe at the balls would be more appropriate. A man owed no respect.

And it hadn’t been his enemy, it hadn’t been Krateros, to deliver the blow. It had been his _friend_. Wasn’t a virtuous man supposed to help his friends and lay low his enemies? In his fury, Alexander had treated him like an enemy.

Hephaistion had been in the wrong. He didn’t deny that. He’d lost his temper at Krateros’s goading and pulled his sword first. Krateros had answered, and Parmenion’s Successor had gone blade to blade with Alexander’s _Hypaspistes Oktopos_ : the two most powerful men in the army brawling like boys in the _gymnasion_.

Oh, that had not been pretty. And when Alexander had pushed his way between them, the light of the god on him, his face full of frightening rage, Hephaistion had been shocked back into himself.  **_“What the fuck are you both doing?”_** the king had thundered in that tone that commanded armies, his own sword drawn, pointed first at one, then other. Even Krateros had gone white in the face.

For a few breaths, Hephaistion had wanted the earth to open and swallow him. He’d dropped his sword and his chin, unable to meet Alexander’s eyes. He’d let his own insecurities, his own pride, and his own plain irritation get the better of him.

But then had come _those words_. Words he’d never be able to forget: “You’re fucking rash and out of your goddamn mind if you don’t realize that without me, you’re unimportant.”

It had been said loudly, too. In front of Krateros. In front of Krateros’s men. In front of Hephaistion’s men. In front of the other Companions and Friends who’d run up at the racket.

Everyone who was anyone had heard Alexander declare that without him, Hephaistion was inconsequential.

Alexander’s eyes had widened even as the rebuke had spilled out of his mouth. Anger might have driven it, but he’d known exactly what he’d said the moment he’d said it. He might have followed up with something to contravene it, or just have admitted he hadn’t meant it.

But kings couldn’t publicly admit they were wrong, especially not _that_ king.

Instead, he’d turned to glare at Krateros. “You. Now. In my tent.” He’d stalked off, Krateros following, but not before the latter had shot a triumphant glance at Hephaistion.

He’d won, the dogshit-eating bastard. Sometimes the one who held the field was the winner.  But sometimes the winner retired first, leaving the enemy dead at his feet.

Hephaistion was as one dead.

Shock had carried him back to his own tent where he’d ordered his staff out, then proceeded to methodically tear apart the interior in a frenzy. That wrath had passed into weeping grief, then curling shame. He’d refused to leave his quarters for almost a full day. He knew what he’d face, he knew the indignity, or, from his friends and supporters, the pity.

The Untouchable Hephaistion had finally been brought low. Kicked to the side of the road by his own friend the king, along with donkey shit and yesterday’s trash. He’d never asked to be untouchable, he’d just dared to love Alexander, and to trust that Alexander would love him back and protect his honor, even as he defended Alexander’s own.

The next day, he’d been summoned to Alexander’s tent. He’d toyed with refusing but the Page bearing the message had made it clear the king’s “invitation” was an order, which had pulled him back finally into the light of the sun.

Or, well, into a pouring Indian afternoon rainstorm. It had seemed appropriate. He wasn’t the only one summoned. Krateros had been there, too, glaring as he’d entered. Hephaistion had been told that the king had delivered a harsh dressing down to Krateros yesterday.

But it hadn’t been _public_.

Standing beside Krateros, Alexander had been all Macedonian king, neither sporting Persian dress nor occupying a throne, even a makeshift one cobbled from a camp chair. He’d waved Hephaistion nearer, making himself a physical barrier between the two. Hephaistion was taller, Krateros was bulkier. They’d glared.

“This is going to stop,” the king had said, voice deceptively light. “I’ve made my own inquiries since yesterday. I know exactly what the fuck is going on here, Krateros. First Philotas, now Hephaistion? And who before those two that I didn’t hear about?”

Krateros had turned his eyes from Hephaistion’s face to Alexander’s. “What is my king implying?”

“That you’re an ambitious son of a bitch. I admire that, actually, to a point. But _this_ man”—he’d tapped Hephaistion’s shoulder—“is off limits.”

“I can defend myself,” Hephaistion had snapped. “Maybe I’m unimportant without you, but I can still fight.”

“ _You_ will shut up.” Turning, Alexander had met Hephaistion’s eyes. “I don’t care what anybody says to you, you will not display behavior unbecoming of a senior officer and my right hand. That says you don’t trust me to hold you in proper esteem, and I can’t abide a lack of trust.”

Alexander may as well have socked him in the jaw. “Lack of trust? Which of us insulted the other _in public_?”

“Shut _up_ , Hephaistion!”

Krateros had watched their exchange with sly amusement, and that, more than Alexander’s rebuke, had closed Hephaistion’s mouth. The calculating snake; Hephaistion would give him nothing more to use against them.

Stepping back, Alexander had left Krateros and Hephaistion to face each other across five paces. “You’ll shake hands. And you’ll swear never to fight again.  If you do, I’ll kill you both, or at least the one who started it.”

There was nothing of humor or jesting in his face. It was the long, icy stare of the King-of-Kings. He’d do it, even if it were Hephaistion he killed, Hephaistion who he claimed to love above all others.

So Hephaistion had shaken Krateros’s hand, even as he’d decided that he’d have to kill Alexander despite the fact he loved Alexander above all others.

Honor required it, and sometimes honor trumped love.

To live without honor, without _tim_ _ē_ , was worse than dying. And Hephaistion knew he _would_ die when he killed his king. If the rest of the Bodyguard didn’t spear him immediately, he’d fall on his own sword. Why had Alexander committed this horror against them both? Didn’t he remember why Pausanias had stabbed Philip?

 

***

 

Hephaistion and Alexander weren’t speaking outside staff meetings, Hephaistion’s Guard duty, or very public venues. The entire army was awash with that delicious scandal: the inseparable friends had been torn asunder, leaving fissures of leverage for others. At the highest levels, little pity existed, and the possibility of new power could render old friendships stale. Hephaistion noted who remained loyal, and who only pretended to.

Perdikkas and Nearchos were the most steadfast, along with Perdikkas’s brother Alkestas. But Koinos remained friendly, as did Peukestis and Lysimachos. Ptolemy was harder to read; he professed continued friendship despite a certain coolness. Then again, he often seemed cool, sitting back and reading the weather vane of moods at staff meetings, not unlike Hephaistion himself. Aside from these, however, most scented rot and distanced themselves. Krateros’s enmity was a given, and Seleukos had never liked him, using this opportunity for advancement, as did Aristonous, Peithon, and Leonnatos, all fellow Somatophylakes, even Alexander’s secretary, Eumenes.

Lines were drawn, and in an effort to shelter those who’d proven loyal when it wouldn’t help them, Hephaistion left personal notes in a casket that he entrusted to one of his senior staff, without explaining the purpose. He just said, should anything happen to him, the casket was to be given to the rest of the Bodyguard. If the man might have wondered why the Guard instead of the king, he otherwise didn’t question the order. Since leaving Poros’s kingdom, fighting had become steadily worse and even senior officers were falling, if not always in combat.

Hephaistion wept when Koinos succumbed to a raging fever, and his funeral was one of the few times Hephaistion stood beside Alexander to honor their old friend.  Ugly rumor circulated that, post mutiny and for the fact Koinos had championed the officers’ request to return, Alexander had arranged for Koinos’s demise. Furious, Hephaistion had dared anyone who said such a thing to meet him in personal combat or keep their mouths shut. The rumor died down. No one had any desire to fight the King’s Octopus with spear or sword.

It might have seemed odd to defend the man he intended to kill. But Alexander didn’t move against men in private by poison, and even now, Hephaistion felt bound to defend his former friend. Like too many in India, Koinos had died of illness, not of more nefarious means.

And as Hephaistion had once gone to Alexander to thank him for standing up for him in public, now Alexander came to Hephaistion’s tent to do the same. Hephaistion was working on supply orders for the upcoming campaign against the Malli. Alexander wanted to prevent them from joining up with the Oxydraki, so it had to be fast, and he was leaving in the morning. Supply orders or no, Hephaistion wouldn’t be going with him. He—and Krateros too—were excluded as punishment. Hephaistion was to sail with Nearchos to make a base camp downriver, while Krateros brought the elephants and other non-combatants more slowly.

Alexander didn’t make a production of his visit, so there was no forewarning, no Page sent ahead to announce him. Hephaistion looked up from the table when the flap to his tent office was pushed aside—he rarely sat with his back to a door these days—then abruptly stood upon realizing who it was. Normally, he wouldn’t bother but now was hardly normal. Alexander waved him back into his seat and pulled out a chair for himself. His Somatophylakes hadn’t followed; it was just them, the first time they’d been completely alone since his fight with Krateros.

Hephaistion could pull his dagger and finish it right now. He didn’t. His damnable curiosity made him wonder why Alexander had come.

“I heard you issued a challenge to anybody who claims I had Koinos murdered for disagreeing with me earlier?”

“I did.”

For several long moments, Alexander didn’t reply, just studied Hephaistion, hands folded together on the tabletop. Lamplight struck iron-blue eyes, hard like a winter sky. Normally, Hephaistion could read his mood, but not now. “Thank you,” he said finally. “It means something to me, that you’d do that, considering.”

“I am my king’s Somatophylax and _hypaspist_.” Shield-bearer, in the older meaning. He hadn’t been a member of the Hypaspists since Baktria and the death of Philotas.

Alexander simply nodded, once. His expression didn’t change, but somehow, he seemed sadder. “Duty,” he said.

“Duty.”

“You know I had to do it, Hephaistion.”

He didn’t need to explain either the change in topic or the “it.” Hephaistion felt his own face go still and his teeth clenched. It was only by force of will that he didn’t bellow back in reply. “You had to stop us, yes. And I should never have started it; I admit that. But he shouldn’t have said to me what he did—that I got my place only by letting you _fuck_ me. And _you_ didn’t have to say what _you_ did in front of everyone. It only confirmed his attack.”

Alexander finally glanced down. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry isn’t good enough.”

“Sorry is all I have.”

Exploding to his feet, Hephaistion stalked away, out the door of his office, through the little tent entry foyer, and into his bedchamber. His abrupt appearance startled Ptolemy and Peithon, on guard in the foyer. Not the ones he’d have wanted to overhear this. Maybe Alexander would leave with them.

He didn’t. He followed Hephaistion. He couldn’t stand to have people angry at him, which was bizarre for a king who frequently had to make people angry as a matter of course. That upset had lain behind his sulking when the army had refused to go further into India. Hephaistion had been sympathetic then. Not now.

Fists clenched, he rounded on Alexander. “Get out of my tent.”

“I’m your king.”

“Yes, that’s all you are now.”

There—it was said. Alexander must have known it, but this was the first time Hephaistion had flatly stated it and Alexander’s pale skin paled further, freckles standing out starkly. “You’re more to me than just a bodyguard and shield-bearer, _agapete_.”

“Don’t call me that. I’m not your love.”

“You are. And ‘sorry’ is all I can offer. I was furious with you—you, of _all_ people, should have known better! Did you really think anything Krateros said would matter to me? It’s been water off a duck’s back to you in the past. Why fucking explode now? How do you think I felt, running up to find my best friend squabbling with another officer like a pair of five-year-olds?”

“How _you_ felt?” Hephaistion was incredulous, but he shouldn’t have been. “It’s always about you, isn’t it? Yes, you’re the fucking king, but not everything is about _you_. Krateros has been harassing me for months. Yet you didn’t know, care, or try to stop it, did you? It’s not fear of what he said affecting _you_ that made me finally lose it. It’s that he’s dividing the army. But you didn’t ask me a thing, when you rode up. You just sided with him and told me I was worthless.”

“I did not _side_ with him—as I made obvious the next day when I warned him off you.”

“Where you accused me of not trusting you! That wasn’t _it_ , but you made it all about _you_ again. Then you made us promise not to fight, or you’d kill us both. And you would, too.”

They were virtually chest to chest, their voices hard but not loud, all too aware of the two Somatophylakes in the room beyond.

Now Alexander spun away and stalked around a bit. “I wouldn’t,” he admitted. “I couldn’t harm a hair on your fucking head. But Krateros has to believe I would. And it’s not about me, not like you mean. There are lines in the sand. You’re not just my friend, you’re also my officer. If you’d come to me and told me what was going on, instead of attacking him yourself…that’s the lack of trust I meant!”

“I couldn’t come to you, you idiot. That’s what he’s been saying—I’m not man enough to fight my own battles.”

“No, you’re a little boy who threw a temper tantrum against a fellow officer instead of coming to your superior—me—to handle it?”

The king had a point, but Hephaistion wasn’t ready to admit it. “That’s not the Macedonian way. All King’s Companions are equal. I can’t be seen running to you to fix everything.”

“Fuck the Macedonian way! We’re not in Macedonia. We’re in an army camp on the edge of fucking India surrounded by fucking hostiles. Normally you aren’t one to harp on Macedonian custom. That would be _Krateros_. And he won’t come at you again.” He paused for breath. “I told you, _I’m sorry_. I was absolutely livid. That makes me say things I don’t mean—and you’re no better. But I can’t walk back in time and unsay what I said.”

Hephaistion’s ire had risen all through Alexander’s little speech. He just didn’t understand. He was entirely focused on excusing himself.

“Some things can’t be fixed with plaster and a linen bandage, or ‘sorry.’ You hurt me too badly. You didn’t just hurt me, you _humiliated_ me. Get out of my tent.”

_Get out of my tent before I kill you._

He still intended to kill him, but it would be calculated, cool, and deliberate. And public.

For just a moment, Hephaistion feared he might have to draw his dagger after all—to defend himself. White-hot fury twisted Alexander’s face, the same kind that he’d shown when grabbing a spear to run it through Kleitos.

It broke almost immediately, replaced by a face-crumpling grief even hotter and more intense. For a moment, he seemed to be struggling to say something, then spun on his heel and walked out.

Hephaistion had the supply orders done by morning, delivering them before returning to his office, not bothering to watch as the strike force set out. Two days later, he and Nearchos struck tents to march ahead south and make a base camp, Krateros’s part of the army lumbering after.


	2. The King's Octopus

Tensions at the base were high. Having arrived first, Hephaistion, and Nearchos took charge, two to one when Krateros arrived shortly after. Even without Alexander present, his threat remained in force, allowing Nearchos to impose a nominal peace between the two men.

Then word came.

The king had been mortally wounded.

That was the first message. Hephaistion opened it in his tent and literally fell to his knees, unable to breathe. “No, no, no, no,” he whispered. _Either I kill him or no one does._

A subsequent message, arriving just a few hours later, informed all that Alexander yet lived, if by a precarious thread. Hephaistion ordered the entire camp to make immediate sacrifices to Darron, the Macedonian god of healing also known as Asklepios. It was done with alacrity.

Four subsequent days floated by in a foggy dream.  Didn’t Hephaistion want Alexander dead?  Brought low for what he’d done?  Hephaistion had intended to kill him for it as soon as he had the chance.

Except he’d had several chances, not least on that last night, when they’d quarreled in his tent. Furthermore, as a Somatophylax, he’d had access to Alexander in intimate settings few could match.  If he’d really wanted to kill him, he’d missed quite a few golden opportunities.  He’d told himself it had to be public because his shaming had been. But did it really? He was going to die immediately after, by his own hand or another’s, and the reason for the murder would be brutally obvious wherever it took place: an honor killing, not politically driven assassination. His loyalty to Alexander was beyond question.

But now Alexander really might _be_ dying far upriver and this enormous rift remained between them. Hephaistion wasn’t reconciled. Alexander had dealt him a blow from which his honor couldn’t recover without the king’s death, or grace. But right now, none of that mattered. Alexander sat on Hades's doorstep and Hephaistion needed to see him before he crossed over.

He gave orders to his men to conceal his absence as long as possible, then hired two trusted Indian guides and, with three of his men, traveled by land upriver to the king’s current camp outside Malli. It was a foolish journey through hostile territory, but he didn’t want anybody aware he’d come until he arrived. He had to show his face to the sentries, but ordered them to silence, then wove his way through the camp’s dirge-like atmosphere towards the great, striped tent of the Great King.

Outside stood Leonnatos and Perdikkas on guard. When he took off his hat and unwound the scarf from his face, they gaped. “ _By Zeus!_ ” Perdikkas gasped.

“He’s alive?” Hephaistion asked.

“He’s alive.”

Hephaistion didn’t bother to request entry, just shouldered past. Inside, physicians and servants hovered. Hephaistion shoved them out of the way, and despite his disfavor, none dared to halt the King’s Octopus.

Alexander looked terrible, one step from death indeed, his face waxy-pale, deep blue hollows under his eyes, cheeks sunken, and the screaming red skin around the packs and plaster over the wound in his left upper chest where the arrow had penetrated and been cut out. His unwashed hair was greasy, beard stubble gold-brown on cheeks and chin.

Hephaistion knelt by the army cot. “ _Krusionos mou_.” My Golden Boy.

There was no immediate response and the king’s physician said, “His mind is there; he can hear you. Talk to him.”

“Out!” Hephaistion yelled at the rest.  “I’ll call you back when I’m finished.”

They fled.

From a boot sheath, he withdrew his dagger. This, he laid in Alexander’s right hand. Then he whispered, voice breaking, “I’d planned to kill you. You defamed me. You’d die, then I’d die, by my own hand, if not by others’. You stole my _timē._ I wanted it back. How could I command or live without it? I might have helped you try to introduce _proskynesis_ , but I’m not groveling at your feet. Then the Indians almost stole you from me and I realized I didn’t give a damn about any of that. I don’t want to kill you. I just want you to defend me as you should have, instead of abusing me.” Abruptly he broke and leaned over, head to Alexander’s shoulder, weeping. “We defend our friends and hurt our enemies, yet you treated me like an enemy. You said you’re sorry, but how can that return my honor? You humiliated me in front of everyone. Still, I won’t kill you. I can’t. I’m not Pausanias. I love you too much. Maybe that makes me weak. I’ll go back now, to base camp, and keep order until you can reach it.”

Abruptly, he stood, wiping tears away. He stared down at the still unresponsive face, and left. After he ate, and slept a little in Perdikkas’s tent, he let his Indian guides take him back with his men. Nearchos had done a good job of covering for his absence. Few realized he’d been gone.

“Alexander?” Nearchos asked upon his return.

“He’s alive. Clinging to the edge, but alive.”

 

***

 

Anxious weeks passed. After his initial, despairing visit, Hephaistion made no second trip. Base camp was a madhouse, rumor rampant despite official releases that the king was recovering. The men feared Alexander dead and the rest covering it up.

Desperate times called for desperate measures, so Hephaistion showed up at Krateros’s tent. “Please alert the _strategos_ I wish to talk to him,” he told one of Krateros’s guards.

Rather than inviting Hephaistion in, Krateros came out, appearing astonished. “What do you want?”

“This camp is tearing itself apart. They don’t believe us, think we’re concealing the king’s death, each trying to stage a coup. We need to do something or Alexander will string us both up.”

Krateros cocked his head and considered. He was a good ten years older, his curly red hair half-gray and thinning at the crown, brown eyes bearing permanent crow’s feet at the corners from squinting over hill, plain, and battlefield. He might look up at Hephaistion a little but had fifteen or twenty _mina_ on him in muscle weight. “You went to the camp outside Malli.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

“You saw him, and he was alive.”

“He was.”

“Do you think he’s dead by now?”

“No. He was in bad shape, but … he’s Alexander.”

“If he dies, you and I, we have to get the men out of here.”

That might be a truce. Or it might be a hand offered to conceal the intention to pull him off-balance.

“ _If_ he dies,” Hephaistion allowed. “I told you, he was alive.”

“Very well. We’ll make a statement tomorrow morning. You can tell the men what you saw.”

And so it was. A little after dawn, Hephaistion, Krateros and Nearchos gathered all the soldiers down near the river and Hephaistion hoisted himself up on a raised platform.  He was no public speaker, but addressing a crowd was necessary with command.

“Alexander’s Men!” He began. “Citizens and soldiers of Macedon! Three weeks ago, I traveled north to the camp where our king lies wounded. I know you’ve heard fearful rumors, but I saw him myself. At that point, while grievously wounded, he was very much alive, and his physicians were hopeful of his recovery.”

Hephaistion paused. He wasn’t good at this. Speechifying was Alexander’s gift, but Nearchos, standing below, touched his ankle in encouragement.

“Soldiers! You well know my attachment to the king. If I’d thought him truly close to death, do you think I’d have returned here? The fact I came _back_ should reassure you that our king will be joining us as soon as his physicians deem it safe.”

He got down off the plinth, receiving a pat on the back from Nearchos and a slight nod from Krateros.

 

***

 

A week later, word came that the king’s fleet had disembarked, bearing south along the Indos. Discouraging rumors remained in camp, despite Hephaistion’s speech, but the worst of it had faded. Hephaistion joined the other commanders at the river dock, watching and waiting as the ships appeared on the horizon. In the foremost, a still figure lay on a raised bed, and seeing it, many soldiers misunderstood, believing the boat to be a funeral barge. They let up a great wail.

The figure on the bed raised a hand and the wail abruptly stopped, turned to cheering.

Privately, Hephaistion’s heart soared. He hadn’t been altogether sure he would meet Alexander again, this side of the Styx. And if he did, then what? He’d admitted his intention to kill the king, even left the murder weapon in Alexander’s hand. Hephaistion returned to his tent to finalize his personal affairs in anticipation of his arrest, leaving a written confession to shield his associates and friends, in addition to what was already in the casket. Only one man would fall, though in truth, he’d fallen already. There wasn’t much worse that could be done to his reputation.

The order came later than he’d expected. A full two days after Alexander’s return, Hephaistion was summoned to the king’s tent. Prepared, he followed the royal Page. It was mid-morning. Most soldiers were at drill or seeing to preparations for their continued march downriver. Hephaistion was grateful for Alexander’s discretion: the camp wouldn’t see him carried away in chains.

When he arrived, Alexander sent out everyone else, even his secretaries and the Somatophyalakes. “Hephaistion will guard me,” he said, which was ironic, considering.

Then, somewhat to Hephaistion’s shock—yet not—he produced the dagger Hephaistion had left, offering it up. “This is yours.” Hephaistion stared. Alexander was giving him back the weapon by which he’d intended to commit regicide? Not issuing orders for his arrest? Hephaistion could take it, reclaim his _tim_ _ē_. All he had to do was plunge the blade into Alexander’s heart, make the king a sacrificial animal on the altar of Hephaistion’s pride.

Except he couldn’t.

“I abused you badly, acted hubristically towards you.” Alexander still held the dagger Hephaistion hadn’t taken. “I heard everything you said when you came to me while I lay between life and death. It gave me a reason to live. To fix it.”

Finally, Hephaistion approached to settle on the bedside and take the dagger, but only to return it to the sheath in his boot.

“Phaistonaki, I’m sorry I hurt you. You said ‘sorry’ isn’t sufficient. But I keep thinking, if I say it often enough, it might be, even though I know it won’t.” That came out oddly pitiful.

Voice bitter, Hephaistion admitted, “I’ve loved you for half my life. I love you still. But I also hate you. You ruined my honor.”

“My responsibility. I’ll fix it. Trust me. You are Alexander, too.”

Hephaistion snorted, dubious. “All right. Sleep, Alekos.”

He started to rise, but Alexander grabbed his arm. “Sleep with me. I need to feel your body.”

Hephaistion shook his head. “No. I haven’t forgiven you.”

“But at least you won’t kill me?” This was offered with humor, albeit masking pain.

“I told you, I couldn’t have anyway. I’m not Pausanias.”

“And I’m not Philip. You’ll see.”

 

***

 

In the end, Alexander’s version of “fixing it” shook not only Hephaistion but upended the prior command structure of the army.

A week after his arrival at base camp, Alexander had his officers help him onto a plinth placed at the center of camp, so he could address his men.  There were far too many to be able to hear him, even if he’d shouted. These days, he no longer had breath for shouting. Part of one lung had collapsed and he’d never again be able to bellow the way he once had.  Instead, his words were carried from the front to the rear by verbal relay.

First, he thanked the men who’d risked their own lives to save his in Malli, then he named Peukestas as an eighth Somatophylax for his bravery. It wasn’t the first time he’d altered Macedonian military structure, but the tradition of the Somatophylakes went back well over a century, at least, and perhaps all the way to the first Alexander, son of Amyntas. Peukestas received the honor with stunned solemnity.

“Finally,” he said, “while I recovered after Malli, I realized we have a structural problem at the command level. We’ve had it for a while; it led to the massacre at Marakanda. I should have corrected it then, but I was too stubborn, too wedded to our Macedonian _nomos_.” Their ancient customs. “At Marakanda, I blamed the generals, not the real problem.

“That same problem resulted in my two top officers pulling swords on each other.” Soldiers murmured at the reference to more recent events, and Hephaistion’s spine stiffened. He didn’t look at Krateros. “Instead of correcting it, again, I blamed them. They shouldn’t have fought”—he glanced first at Krateros, then around at Hephaistion, his blue eyes hard—“but they shouldn’t have been put in a position that led to it.”

His own embarrassment aside, Hephaistion puzzled over what, exactly, Alexander meant.

“The problem,” Alexander went on, “rests with me.”

Dead silence. Kings didn’t admit to failure, not so bluntly. Especially not this king.

Hephaistion remembered to shut his mouth.

“What’s the problem? Simple. A failure to clarify the command chain. In Macedon, the King’s Companions have always stood equal before the king, as I’ve been recently reminded.” By Hephaistion. “That’s how it’s always been. In combat, units have officers, but even there, _taxiarchs_ and other commanders are equal. That got good men killed at Marakanda because they fought over who, ultimately, was in charge. While Parmenion lived, he was my Second, but since, there hasn’t been one. I even divided the command of the Companion Cavalry, then split it again six ways. And outside combat, there never was any hierarchy at all, except a king’s favor.

“That can’t continue.” This pronouncement brought a swell of murmurs like the sound of the sea lashed by spring winds. Alexander waited until it subsided. “It might have worked for a small kingdom on the edge of the Thermaikos Gulf, but we’re not that kingdom anymore. My father changed the army, made it a hundred times more efficient, but he didn’t change the basic command structure. Neither did I.

“But I will now. I have to. I may be King of Macedon, but I’m also Great King of Persia and Pharaoh of Egypt. Going forward, there _will_ be a clear chain of command, in peace as well as in combat. As always, I’ll assign officers based on their seniority and demonstrated skill. Yet each man will answer to the officer above him, and not just on a battlefield.”

The army had begun murmuring again, a little louder now. Hephaistion couldn’t tell if it were in approval or disapproval. Probably both. He was also stunned at just how bluntly Alexander addressed this issue, no longer trying to deny that Marakanda had been a debacle because he hadn’t been there to give orders that wouldn’t be contravened. Privately, most of the army had known that, but since the murder of Kleitos, no one had been willing to say so above a whisper.

Perhaps almost dying had finally knocked some sense into the king’s hard head.

“If there’s a dispute on a matter of fairness, any Macedonian may approach me for resolution, just as has always been our custom. I am, still, a Macedonian king. But I _will_ impose order. Officers, no matter how senior, will not challenge each other or pick fights over status, because going forward, their relative statuses will be as clear as rock crystal.”

Hephaistion risked a glance at Krateros finally, who’d apparently risked a glance at him at the same time. Their gazes crossed and locked.

“In addition to a pyramidal command structure, I’m going to restore the Persian office we call the Chilliarchy: a formal second-in-command, not just one informally recognized, as Parmenion enjoyed.” Abruptly, Alexander turned to look down at Hephaistion in the crowd around the plinth. “As for who my right hand will be—it’s who it’s always been. I called him another Alexander once, and so he remains. Hephaistion Amyntoros will be Chilliarch.”

No applause followed, almost no sound at all for several breaths. The army as well as the upper echelons of Alexander’s Companions needed the space to adjust to the abrupt and decisive elevation of a man who, just a month ago, had been perceived to be in total eclipse.

On his left, Nearchos muttered, “You’re fucking unsinkable, you son of a bitch.” But it was said with amused fondness.

Finally acclamation did come, spreading out from the men of Hephaistion’s Hipparchy into the army as a whole. Alexander offered Hephaistion his hand. “Get up here. I can’t pull you.”

Hephaistion was standing on the wrong side and didn’t want to push through men to the steps; Nearchos and Perdikkas boosted him up beside Alexander, on the king’s right. The king clapped his back. “Will this do, to return your honor?” he asked under the roar of men shouting Hephaistion’s name.

Hephaistion wasn’t quite crying, but it was a close thing. “Fuck you,” he muttered back. “You could have warned me.”

“I like surprises.”

“No, you like _theater_.”

“So you’ve said. And I do. Almost as much as I love you.” He gripped Hephaistion’s left hand and raised a gold ring so the watching men could see it. It wasn’t one of his own. He must have had it made just for this. He slipped it onto Hephaistion’s forefinger. The face bore an octopus carved in ocean-blue lapis.

A seal ring. His seal ring.

“ _Khilliarkhos Oktopos,_ ” Alexander shouted to the army’s acclamation. He grinned like a madman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Greek, the term “hubris” or to act “hubristically” means more than how we use it today in English. It was a crime for which a man could be prosecuted in court, involving an affront to the honor _(timē)_ of another man, or family. When Alexander admits he acted hubristically to Hephaistion, he doesn’t just mean he acted arrogantly. He means he committed a crime against his best friend. He has to make it right with more than “sorry” or “I love you.” Greece was a shame, not guilt, culture, so public standing was everything. Medea killed her own children to get revenge on Jason when he dishonored her. Another, similar example of murder to reclaim honor involved Harmodaios and Aristogeiton, the Tyrant Slayers of Athens, plus, of course, Philip and Pausanias. Hephaistion’s planned murder-suicide is in the same vein.
> 
> Though I doubt she’ll ever read this, I owe Dr. Reames for the basic idea. The somewhat different translation of the infamous put-down is from the original Greek, although I used expletives to get across the emphasis (Ἀλέξανδρος ἐλοιδόρει τὸν Ἡφαιστίωνα φανερῶς, ἔμπληκτον καλῶν καὶ μαινόμενον, εἰ μὴ συνίησιν ὡς, ἐάν τις αὐτοῦ τὸν Ἀλέξανδρον ἀφέληται….[Plutarch, _Alexander_ 47.6]).
> 
> I blame delos13 for great conversations that resulted in this story. And if readers catch a few parallels to my earlier story, "Making Amends," it was intentional.


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